


Till Fire Purge All Things New by pandemonium_213

by pandemonium_213



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-09
Updated: 2009-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:22:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3754390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandemonium_213/pseuds/pandemonium_213
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sauron has a moment of doubt in the Sammath Naur.</p>
<p>For B2MeM 2009: Day 15 -- The Ides of March: "Do I dare disturb the universe?"</p>
<p>MEFA 2009: First Place in Genres: Ficlets: General</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The circle of fire seared his skin. Casting tendrils of light against the stone vaults of the chamber, his creation hoarded subterranean heat -- this culmination of the temptation of beautiful minds, of horrific betrayal, and after much toil and many trials, what might be success.  
  
This ring, this _one_ ring – so simple but not complete; this ring, _his_ ring – like a willing lover, its quiescent flame awaited his entry, its empty template yearning for him to define its existence. Its light burned his eyes, his fate engraved in its script. His whole body quaked; his guts twisted into knots of uncertainty.  
  
_What if it works this time? Do I dare disturb the universe?_  
  
He stared at the ring and the domes of blistered accusation rising on his hand. Yet the pain purified him, purging him of fear. He knew the answer. Cold conviction froze tepid doubt. He breathed in the acrid pyromancy of the mountain’s fires, his throat raked raw, but the words he chanted were the stuff of song, resonant with the thrum of the mountain and the thunder of the skies:  
_  
Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul_...and his mind screamed as it split in twain.


	2. Chapter 2

The circle of fire seared his skin. Casting tendrils of light against the stone vaults of the chamber, his creation hoarded subterranean heat -- this culmination of the temptation of beautiful minds, of horrific betrayal, and after much toil and many trials, what might be success.  
  
This ring, this _one_ ring – so simple but not complete; this ring, _his_ ring – like a willing lover, its quiescent flame awaited his entry, its empty template yearning for him to define its existence. Its light burned his eyes, his fate engraved in its script. His whole body quaked; his guts twisted into knots of uncertainty.  
  
_What if it works this time? Do I dare disturb the universe?_  
  
He stared at the ring and the domes of blistered accusation rising on his hand. Yet the pain purified him, purging him of fear. He knew the answer. Cold conviction froze tepid doubt. He breathed in the acrid pyromancy of the mountain’s fires, his throat raked raw, but the words he chanted were the stuff of song, resonant with the thrum of the mountain and the thunder of the skies:  
_  
Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul_...and his mind screamed as it split in twain.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is derived from verse 900, Book XI, Paradise Lost by John Milton.
> 
> This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=473>


End file.
